


Elementary 07: The First Hiatus (1883-1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Fanfiction, Hiatus, London, M/M, Partner Betrayal, Pining Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three Cas-less years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1883-1884

1883

All those times I had spent worrying about exactly what sort of relationship I had had with Cas seemed so pointless now. The man was gone, possibly never to return. It was not just the cases we had undertaken together, but merely the presence of the beautiful, scruffy alpha in his fireside chair, the barley-sugar pipe, the atrocious violin playing, the 'angel sword' (a present from his father on reaching eighteen) that he sometimes took out and cleaned, even the pistol-shooting indoors – I felt like the abandoned wife in one of those terrible melodramas that were being shown across London, and I did not like it. 

Cas' things had been delivered to Baker Street the day before my arrival, and had been fully unpacked. Evidently however he had left in something of a hurry – some of his personal effects and most of his clothes had been left behind, along with all of his paperwork. I filed the latter neatly into envelopes, and tried not to make it look as if I was planning for his return, even if I was. The thing that nearly broke me at that time was incredibly stupid; down the back of the hat-stand I found that ridiculous lumberjack hat with the floppy ears that he so often wore. It ended up under my pillow, and every day I hid it in my bedside table so that the maids would not see it. It was, I felt, my last contact with him.

Cas' birthday in September was awful. It fell on a Tuesday that year, and I had toyed with the idea of taking the day off work, but decided on reflection that the health problems of central-north London might keep my mind off of my troubles. It may have been the lesser of two evils, but at every pause in the day I found myself thinking of my friend, and wondering how he was getting on, or indeed if he was well. I cannot describe my emotions, or what remained of them, when I arrived home to a telegram from Miss Anael Novak – Mrs. Thompson upon her recent marriage – stating that she had enjoyed reading the recently-published 'Rock And A Hard Place', and that Cas was 'all right'. The relief that those few short lines brought me was indescribable, though of course I wished for so much more.

The next case that I considered worthy of publishing was 'A Very Supernatural Christmas', and my problems arose not so much from that as from the next one in order, 'Faith'. My readers will, I hope, understand my reluctance at the time to provide the public with details of that case, especially as I feared it might cause Cas' family to break off all communication with me. I was eventually prompted to continue writing by Mrs. Thompson, who in what had now become her quarterly telegrams asked one time as to whether I was planning to write more. I wrote her back with my qualms about the next story in line – I was sure, knowing how families worked – that she knew about her brother Gabriel's role in that matter – and she responded by encouraging me to go on, which I did. 'A Very Supernatural Christmas' (which, coincidentally, came out in the festive season) was also very well received, and I began to entertain serious thoughts about writing as an additional source of income.

1884

My thirty-second birthday passed in January, still with no sign of Cas. From something that Mrs. Thompson had said, I wondered if he had gone to the United States for some reason, though I could think of nothing that would cause such a sudden move halfway around the world. I may or may not have asked Mrs. Harvelle for an additional plateful of bacon that morning, done extra crispy.

It seemed appropriate that March of that year saw the start of the ill-starred siege of Khartoum in the Sudan, which would end in the brutal death of General Charles Gordon at the hands of the Mahdi rebels some ten months later. Like the botched attempts to relieve him, which eventually earned Gladstone the appellation 'Gordon's Only Murderer', I felt my life was really going nowhere. 

My second published story of Cas' adventures appeared in the April and May editions of the Strand, starting on the very day of the famous Colchester earthquake which killed four people. More importantly for me, that spring also saw the retirement of one of the surgery's elder doctors (his colleagues had been dropping hints for over five years, apparently, until one day his wife simply informed him either he was leaving the practice, or she was leaving him!). I thus obtained a full-time position there, although I had been working almost every day beforehand anyway what with covering absences and holidays. Besides, working longer hours meant I had less time to mope around Baker Street and stare at empty chairs or bedroom doors. Or at the contents of bedside cabinets. I was approached by representatives of two other surgeries at this time with generous offers to join them, but I refused, partly because I believed I owed my first employer a degree of loyalty, and partly because I was slightly suspicious that my slight but increasing fame might be their real reason for asking. I was content where I was, even if I always felt a slight chill coming home each evening to a Cas-less apartment.

August of that year was when I was first approached by the famous publishers, then just Brett and Burke, to have my stories printed in book form. I agreed, but only on condition that the Strand magazine, the first to recognize my 'talents', still got to publish them first, and that some time would be allowed to elapse before the book version appeared. It was decided that when I had published seven stories, the first six would be made into a book, and I began working properly on 'Faith'. I did send Sir Charles Novak a telegram stating my reservations, but he sent back that I should feel free to publish, and his son Gabriel would just have to put up with it. I smiled at that.

Cas' birthday passed on a Thursday that year, and I was ridiculously reminded of his being named after the Angel of Thursday. Hell, if I started getting depressed every seven days, I would just give up!

I had not even thought of seeking out social company with Cas gone, but a few days before All Saints' Day, I chanced to meet Miss Lisa Braeden at a surgery function. She was the niece and carer to one of my elderly patients, an eternally grumpy old man called Silas Merton, who lived in an absurdly large house in Deptford. She and I saw each other as friends for some two months, then at a party where we both drank too much, we awoke the following morning in the same bed. Naked. I felt both dirty and ashamed, as if I had betrayed Cas in some way. I went home and had a long hot bath in the bath salts that Cas had used to use, and that I now ordered regularly (it was not pathetic, whatever that small voice at the back of my mind said). I later found that Miss Braeden had also been seeing the son of an army colonel, Matthew somebody or other, and it was with mixed emotions that I learned soon after that she had accepted his proposal of marriage and left London to live with him somewhere in the country. I little knew then just what trouble our brief liaison would one day cause me.

That autumn was a cold one, enlivened only by the passing of the Representation of the People Act, or the Third Reform Act as it became more commonly known. It greatly extended and made uniform the franchise, although over half of all adult males (and of course all women) still did not have the vote. I remember it because a badly-worded amendment to the act, aimed at limiting the franchise for omegas, almost inadvertently removed the rights of all who were not alphas or betas to vote, including myself as a sigma. The Times thundered its displeasure against the member who had brought forward such a poorly-worded amendment, and it was quietly dumped. As was said member's career.


	2. 1885-1886

1885

In January of 'Eighty-Five I turned thirty-three years of age, a time when many of my generation were settling down with families. Although I did not like children that much, I had always seen myself as eventually falling into a happily married existence, growing old together with my one true love. All right, so I was a closet romantic. There are worse crimes!

The hounds of Hell would not have got me to admit the identity of the person I wished to grow old with, except that currently they were not to hand.

I finished 'Faith' that same February, and my writing muse seemed determined to keep me busy, for I followed it up just four months later with 'Of Grave Importance'. Both the Strand magazine and my publishers were eager for further adventures concerning the famous Mr. Castiel Novak, but I was reluctant. I enjoyed the money – of course - but there were only two stories left that I felt fit for publication, and I also felt that in sending those stories out into the world I would, perhaps foolishly, also be releasing Cas, or at least my hopes for his return. I did start work on 'Yellow Fever', but warned both magazine and publishers that it would take some time before it was finished. I was also somewhat unnerved by the reactions of my more literate patients, who had begun chivvying me over my writings, although their comments were generally positive. 

There was a rare light-hearted moment that summer, courtesy of my friend Doctor Peter Greenwood. He had brought a cheap magazine into the surgery one day, and advised me to read Cockswain, one of the stories in it. I was put off by the poor quality print, but he was right; I did find the story quite interesting. It was basically a rehashed version of Pilot, except with a rowing element and a whole lot more sex between the two main characters, Daniel and Charles. And Daniel – an English country doctor, apparently – was a complete bumbling idiot of the first order, emotionally constipated to boot, whilst Charles was a complete sex-maniac, whose motto seemed to be anytime, any place, anywhere! Peter laughed when he saw me later, and told me that I now had true fame, in that someone was prepared to go to the trouble of 'sexing up' my works. Hah! If only he knew what Cas and I really got up to in those cases....

Sammy came down for a rare visit that September, and stayed for a long weekend that included Cas' birthday – his thirty-first – so at least that distracted me. He was doing well on his course, and I had no wish to add to his concerns about a brother whose love life was apparently shot to pieces. He even asked if I would consider moving North to live with him. The prospect held no appeal for me at all; I wanted to remain here, in case.... well, just in case.

One particular incident from the autumn of that year also comes to mind. I was generally away from the house from dawn till dusk, but on that particular December day I chanced to have a patient who had collapsed on Baker Street tube station, and I decided to go home for a much-needed hot drink. Walking back to the house, I asked Mrs. Harvelle for a coffee, and waited to take it up myself. On arriving in my room however, I nearly dropped it onto the rug! Someone had been through Cas' papers, and his bedroom door was slightly ajar!

Taking out my revolver, I burst into his bedroom, and found.... nothing. I quickly hurried down to see our landlady, who told me that the insufferable Mr. Balthazar Novak had called earlier that day, and asked to spend some time in his brother's room, and that he had had someone with him who she had not closely seen (very unlike her I thought, perhaps a little uncharitably). As the man's father was still paying for Cas' half of the rent I could not object, but I did not like it. Something was up. But did it also mean that the chances of the scruffy genius' returning had improved?

Just days later, Mrs. Thompson's seasonal telegraph arrived, and reading between the lines, I sensed that whatever family drama had taken Cas from me was coming to a resolution. And now I came to think about it, it had struck me as odd that the room had been so cold after the playboy's visit, as if he had opened all the windows to remove a scent I might recognize. Had Cas himself been there, and was his brother trying to prevent me from detecting that unique scent of his? 

1886

I saw in 'Eighty-Six trying not to get my hopes up, and on my thirty-fourth birthday I went to sleep whilst hugging a certain woolly hat. God, I was such a girl!

That winter was a bitter one, I recall, and there were two days of rioting by the unemployed in the West End of London, of all places. The city was also on edge over the debate of Irish Home Rule, which Mr. Gladstone, prime minister again after the brief tenure of the Marquess of Salisbury, had announced that he would now support. I also remember Mrs. Bowles berating me for not keeping her father alive through it, despite the man being ninety-one at his death, a prodigious age for those times (and if I had had her for a daughter, Heaven would have seemed doubly attractive!). That happened on March the twelfth, three years to the day after I had lost the love of my life.

Who, had I but known it, I was tantalizingly close to recovering.


End file.
